Page 50 of The Sea Witch (Salt & Sorcery #1)

Close to dusk, Alys, Stasia, Susannah, and Thérèse were rowed in to a thin beach at the base of a cliff. As soon as their

boots touched the sand, the jolly boat returned to the Sea Witch in preparation for its treacherous passage through the strait. Whether or not the ship survived its journey depended on Alys

and the rest of the landing party.

To reach the Redthorns’ monastery first required a long climb up the steep rocky bluff. A flash of soreness ran up Aly’s leg,

yet it still held her weight. That morning, before pulling on her breeches, she had examined her wound. The flesh was now

marked with a pink puckered line, bisected by Fatima’s unneeded stitches, which the surgeon soon removed.

Never had Alys healed so quickly before. Even after balancing.

Except last night, Ben had been the one to balance her, his body close and solid against hers until sunrise.

“We climb to the top,” Alys said now to her waiting crew. “Looks to be about sixty feet high.”

“Poutana,” Stasia muttered.

Alys sent her friend a sympathetic look. “Then we make our way along the ridge, until we reach the Redthorns.”

They all looked toward the monastery. At this distance, a quarter of a mile away, it appeared deceptively small.

Alys pulled out her spyglass for more detail.

The monastery was made up of several stories built atop a stony cliff, topped with a deeply pointed slate roof.

Yet more of the hermitage had been built into the side of the bluff, boasting arches that opened onto a long balcony running the length of the building.

One cannon sat on the balcony. There was no railing to impede the gun’s firing.

The cannon faced the strait, ready to blast anyone foolish enough to try to pass.

Alys passed the spyglass to Stasia. After Stasia looked through it, she handed it to Susannah, who then gave it to Thérèse.

Once Thérèse assessed the monastery, she returned the spyglass to Alys.

Waves lapped against Alys’s boots. The tide was rising, giving the Sea Witch the needed water level to navigate the strait. Alys and the rest of the landing party had to move quickly.

“Fly up?” Susannah suggested.

“We need to save our magic,” Alys answered. “Are we all good to climb?”

“Are you ?” Stasia sent a pointed glance toward Alys’s thigh.

Alys gave her leg one last test to make sure it could bear her weight. “It’ll hold.”

Gripping to the projecting stones, she aimed her gaze to the top of the cliff and began to climb. The rest of the crew followed.

No one spoke as they ascended—except Stasia, who cursed steadily in Greek the entire way up.

Finally, they reached the top. Alys’s newly healed leg throbbed, yet it continued to bear her weight. Stasia briefly knelt

in the soil and brought a handful of dirt to her lips before she rose to standing.

Keeping low, Alys, Stasia, Susannah, and Thérèse crept along the top of the rocky bluff. Alys’s thigh ached as they skulked

up the gradual incline, sloping upward toward the monastery. Half a mile away, the Sea Witch began to sail through the narrow passage. Soon, the ship would be visible to the monastery. Alys and her crew had to be well inside the structure by the time that happened, or else... disaster.

She and the others skirted around windswept scrub and jagged rocks, an air of worry hanging low, almost smothering. Sweat

clung to Alys’s back as they scrambled toward the monastery.

They drew closer, and then came to an abrupt stop.

A menacing wall of thick thorny vines rose up, tall as a single-story building, deep enough that they couldn’t see through,

and stretching out on either side as far as the eye could see. Tightly entangled, the vines were bluish black, shining as

if dipped in viscous oil. The thorns were the size of fingernails, pointed and curved to hook into something and hang on.

Stasia tried to clear a path by pulling the vines away, then snatched her hand back with a curse.

Blood dripped down her punctured fingers and palm.

Alys drew her cutlass and slashed at the foliage. Yet her blade glanced off the vines, leaving not a single mark on the vegetation.

Susannah darted off to one side of the thicket. When she returned a moment later, her face was grim. “There’s no end to them.

And no other way inside.”

“We might use magic to pry these things open,” Stasia said.

“They seem too tough to be forced to do anything.” Alys studied the thorny vines.

“We make them change directions,” Thérèse suggested. “Alter how they grow.”

Alys and her crew shared a nod before they faced the thicket. “Concentrate,” she urged them. “Flow into the vines, curve and

curl with them.”

Silence fell as the four women focused on weaving their magic into the vegetation. The more Alys eased into each turn and

twist of the vines, the more the plants accepted her guidance.

A rustling sounded. The vines began to twist apart.

Alys stepped into the small space now open within the thicket wall.

She slowly moved forward as she and the other witches encouraged the vines to untangle.

As she pushed onward, Stasia and the others stayed close behind her.

Thérèse brought up the rear, holding the foliage open just enough so that they could all walk through.

With each step forward, the vines behind them closed.

The thicket curved overhead, nearly blocking out the remaining daylight.

Thorns surrounded them. The way was tight as they wove through the corridor. Their faces and clothes were soon covered with

scrapes, and all the while, they fought the vines’ demand to grow back together again.

Hisses and curses rose up from her crew.

“Fuck these plants from hell,” Stasia snarled lowly.

Finally, daylight appeared ahead. Inhaling, Alys stepped from the vegetation into open space. She moved to the side as the

rest of her crew emerged.

As soon as they were free, the foliage twisted back into place with a loud snap. A scrap of Thérèse’s coat was hanging from

one of the thorns.

“I liked that coat,” she muttered, examining the tear in her clothing.

They now stood in a strip of cultivated land that stretched between the thorns and the monastery itself. Flourishing plants

lined up in several raised beds. Some of them bore fruit, evidence that they were well cared for.

“Kitchen garden,” Susannah said.

“The dishes these crops season are poisoned.” Alys examined the leaves of the plants, careful to keep from touching them.

“Hemlock, nightshade, foxglove. Enough to fell an army.”

“Or nourish Redthorns,” Thérèse noted.

“Hecate save us,” Stasia muttered. “We are to engage these monsters?”

Alys strode to an arched door set in the monastery wall. She drew her cutlass before opening the door as quietly as possible.

At one end of the vaulted room, a tall hearth stood with smoke-stained bricks and a large heavy pot bubbled above a smoldering fire.

Shelves stacked with jugs, cups, bowls, and cannisters lined the walls.

Down the center of the room stood a heavy table.

Here and there were more bowls, and cooking knives set aside from their tasks.

The air carried the scent of roast meat and bitter almonds.

She and her crew quickly moved from the empty kitchen and turned into an adjoining room. Another trestle table ran the length

of the chamber, with three large rough wooden chairs on either side. An empty bowl sat at each place.

“We’ll expect six of them,” Alys whispered to her crew.

Deep-set windows lined one of the walls, facing out toward the strait. Alys exhaled—the Sea Witch wasn’t yet in the passage. Shadows darkened the strait as the day drew toward its close. The tide was rising, but it would

ebb soon. It wouldn’t be much longer before their ship was vulnerable in the strait. They had to hurry.

A staircase led down from the refectory. Narrow and dank, it loomed close as they descended. They emerged in a corridor with

open doorways on one side, and more windows set in the opposite wall.

Alys led her group from room to room, peering inside to ensure no one was within. Narrow cells were bare of furnishings, save

for a single cot in each one, covered in a rough blanket, and a shelf set into the wall holding a few books. The only sunlight

in each cell came from the window out in the corridor, turning each monk’s sleeping quarters into a grim hollow of shadows.

A bundle of thorny vines huddled at the foot of every bed. The floor beneath was stained with dried blood.

“This must be why they’re called Redthorns,” Susannah whispered. “They flagellate themselves with these thorny canes.”

The final cell was much larger, with multiple cots lined up, and a thick door bearing a substantial iron lock.

“There were only six places at the table,” Alys murmured. “So who are these beds for?”

“Guests?” Thérèse supposed.

“Who don’t eat with the monks?” Alys shook her head. “There were prisoners here. But they’re gone now.”

Alys stepped to a window facing the sea. It revealed the Sea Witch , sailing as quickly as it could through the channel. “If I can see our ship, so can the Redthorns.”

They crept down spiral stone stairs and emerged on the bottom floor of the monastery. It was one cavernous hall carved directly

into the cliff, with ceilings beamed with broad timbers. The chamber stretched into darkness. A few tall open doors led to

a balcony. Hanging from the wall nearest the staircase were six maces, almost as long as Alys was tall. Topping each one was

a cylindrical head, ringed by giant iron thorns.

Alys gulped at the brutal weapons. At least they were hanging here in their armory—the Redthorns were currently unarmed...

hopefully.

Six enormous men stood on the balcony, surrounding the cannon. Black robes draped from their broad shoulders. Red cowls topped

their black robes. Slanting rays from the sun glinted on the shaved sides of their heads. The rest of their hair hung in long